


Perfect Ten

by HisAngelThursday



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), (the best kind), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Body Dysphoria, But mostly fluff, Chubby Dean, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Insecure Dean, Loving Castiel, M/M, Sharing a Bed, With Kisses and Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 06:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10237826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisAngelThursday/pseuds/HisAngelThursday
Summary: Just like his freckles and bowlegs, Dean’s slight pudge has always been a part of himself that he’s never felt completely comfortable with.  After a few miserable days of unsuccessful dieting and choking down rabbit food, Cas reminds him exactly how beautiful he is.





	

“You’re getting kinda chubby!” 

Charlie makes this remark lightly, offhandedly, as she passes by Dean on the way to breakfast that morning: Dean had been stretching his arms overhead in a yawn so that his cotton shirt rode up over his stomach, which Charlie takes the opportunity to poke.

Startled, he looks down just in time to see the disconcerting way in which her fingertip sort of smushes into the soft, freckly flesh. 

Dean halts in his tracks, blinking comprehensively. “Wait, what?” is all he can think to say.

Charlie, who’d been nonchalantly continuing on her way down the hall, turns to look at him. “Well, you don’t have to sound so offended about it,” she laughs. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way or anything!”

Dean folds his arms defensively. “Then what did you mean, Charles?”

“First of all, I answer only to Charlie, Ms. Bradbury, or the Illustrious Queen of Moondoor. Next, I just meant you put on a couple pounds. Maybe getting a bit of a tummy. It’s no big deal.”

Dean looks comprehensively down at his stomach. Now that he thinks about it, he has been eating more these days -- he’s been going through sort of a “nesting period” during his relationship with Cas: lots of baking pies, burgers, etc. He didn’t think it was noticeable. 

Taking note of the gravity of his expression, Charlie laughs, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You don’t have to look so glum about it! It’s cute.”

Dean glowers at her, tugging self consciously at his t-shirt. “M’not cute,” he mutters grouchily. “I’m a warrior.”

Charlie laughs again. “Alright, warrior. Hurry up and take care of your morning breath -- Kevin’s making waffles again!”

With that, Charlie skips off down the hall, leaving Dean to steep in his juices. He lets Charlie laugh it off, of course -- he knows she didn’t mean any harm -- but the fact is, Dean’s always known he’s had a little bit of pudge around his midsection, and he’s always been the slightest bit insecure about it. Just like his freckles and bowlegs, it’s one of the things about himself that he’s never particularly liked. 

His one solace was convincing himself that these features weren’t as noticeable to everyone else as they are to him. Now, that seems to have changed. 

Dean pulls up the rim of his shirt, noting sourly the way in which his pudge protrudes slightly over the waistband of his pajama pants.

Suddenly he doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.

 

... 

 

Three days of dieting later, and Dean is miserable. In addition to Sam’s irksome, questioning looks when he ordered salad, all the greenery doesn’t sit well with his established palate of pie, meat, and french fries. 

Moreover, he’s been in a progressively sour mood for its entirety, snapping at everyone who so much looks at him the wrong way. And worse, his paunch remains stubbornly undeterred by his efforts.

At present, he lies on his back on his stupid, comfy memory foam mattress, abandoned copy of Slaughterhouse-Five still open on his chest, fiddling sourly with the layer pudge just beneath his belly button. 

He feels stupid being so concerned with his looks -- he is a guy, after all, and guys aren’t supposed to be worried about stuff like that -- but Dean’s never thought of himself as particularly smart or particularly talented. Sure, he’s a decent enough guy, with a reasonably important job, but more than anything his looks are what he’s had to go on in life.

And now that he’s with Cas, he might not be so concerned with chatting up waitresses or bartenders, but it still makes him feel good to be thought of as attractive. He doesn’t want to lose that.

As if on cue, the door creeks open and Cas walks in, decked out as always in his concerned puppy expression and usual beige trench coat. In one hand, he’s holding what looks to be a bag from the local Gas’n’Sip. 

In spite of himself, Dean smiles, scooting into an upright sitting position. “Hey, Cas. Watcha got there, buddy?”

Cas clears his throat, still standing at attention in the center of the room. “I bought you pie,” he announces. 

Dean gapes. “What? Why?” 

Cas’s jaw works noiselessly for a second or two, seeming surprised by Dean’s demanding tone. “I...I’ve notice you’ve been short tempered lately,” he explains. “Unhappy. Generally irritable.” 

“So?”

Cas shuffles awkwardly, looking abashedly at the floor. “...So, I assumed you might be angry with me.” 

Oh. Well, now Dean just feels bad. 

He sighs, patting the bed beside him and gesturing for Cas to sit. Tentatively, Cas complies. 

“It’s not you, buddy,” he assures him. “I’ve been in a bad mood lately, granted, but I promise it’s got nothing to do with you.” 

“What is it, then?” Cas asks, eyebrows scrunched together in concern. 

Dean sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. How exactly does one explain his body image issues to a non-corporeal entity? 

“Look, Cas,” he begins. “I don’t know if you noticed this, but I’ve...put on a few pounds lately.” 

Cas nods his head. “Fifteen point six pounds, over the last year of our relationship. I know.” 

Dean gapes. He hadn’t thought it was that bad, and he’s so taken aback by the statement that he can’t even question how Cas knows that. “Goddamn it,” he mutters. “I really need to get a scale.” 

Cas observes him tentatively, brow rumpling into a frown. “Are you...concerned about your weight, Dean?”

“Well, yeah,” he huffs, assuming that should be obvious. The elaboration doesn’t seem to make Cas any less confused, however, so he continues, “Look, buddy, I don’t expect you to understand this, but we humans...sometimes there’s stuff about our meat suits that we don’t really like. Me, for instance, I don’t like my stomach. I don’t like that I have a double chin sometimes, either, or...or my bowlegs, or my freckles, or my lips -- guys used to make fun of me for those, said they were girly. Point is, there’s a lot of stuff about myself I’d change if I could, Cas, and right now I’m trying to change my weight. Understand?” 

Cas only looks confusedly into Dean’s eyes. “But Dean,” he says finally. “Those are some of the things I love about you most.” 

Dean blinks comprehensively. “...Wait, what?” is all he can think to say. 

“Naturally, before all else, I love your soul,” Cas elaborates. “That part of you I always see, and it never ages, never changes, never loses its beauty. It is the part of you I hope to spend eternity with in the Fields of Paradise, and I love it with all of my essence.” 

Dean shifts uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to such a profession. Thankfully, Cas continues, “But your mortal form, temporary as it may be, I love as well: and I love your freckles, Dean. Sometimes, when you are sleeping, I like to count them, pretend they’re stars and constellations, like the ones I used to walk among in my immortal home. Just as I love your bowlegs, the distinctiveness of your walk, so uniquely you.”

“Cas-” 

“And I love your midsection as well,” he continues, with a small smile. “I love the softness of your flesh, pliable and warm and so very human. Moreover, I think it’s very...” He pauses, squinting as he seems to search for the right term. “...Cute.”

Normally Dean would object to that, but next thing he knows Cas is shifting his weight on the bed and leaning forward, lips suddenly intimately close to his own. As he kisses him, he can’t seem to think about anything except for the warm, chapped lips against his own. 

“And of course,” Cas murmurs, between kisses. “I love your lips. Love their fullness, their warmth, the feel of them against mine.” 

“Cas.”

“I love you, Dean.” Cas begins working his way down Dean’s neck, breath hot against the delicate flesh. “I love every part of you.”

They make love that evening, and Cas makes it a point to kiss every one of Deans freckles, to kiss his belly, his slight double chin, even working his way down between his bowed legs. 

By the time he’s through, Dean feels tingly all over and fluttery inside, like a schoolboy, and he’s having a hard time remembering what he was upset about to begin with.

Sometime later, he lies with Cas’s head against his bare chest -- a position Cas likes because he can hear the steady thud of Dean’s heart. 

“Hey, Cas?” 

“Yes, Dean.” 

“We got any pie?”


End file.
